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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442661">Nobody Can Save Me Now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironxprince/pseuds/ironxprince'>ironxprince</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>&lt;- please heed those warnings, BAMF Carol Danvers, Corpses, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Immortality, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Poor Peter Parker, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Sam Wilson, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, explanations in the author's note</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:22:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironxprince/pseuds/ironxprince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A thought strikes Peter and he reaches for his chest, frantic hands pushing his sweatshirt up to examine the wound he felt create itself, searching for the metal he watched carve its way into his skin.<br/>There's a hole through the sweatshirt, but nothing on his skin.<br/>But… but that's impossible. He </i>felt <i>it impale him. He should’ve </i>died.</p><p>Or: an Irondad <i>The Old Guard</i> AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nobody Can Save Me Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueryingQuill/gifts">QueryingQuill</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW for descriptions of corpses, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm with a knife - not in reference to mental illness. It’s used to prove a character’s immortality, and later to distract them. It becomes a habit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The plane engine hums and shudders as the pilot fights to regain control of the doomed aircraft. Emergency lights flicker dimly above, barely illuminating the faces of hundreds of terrified occupants. Daylight flashes by the windows as the cabin rocks back and forth, like God is playing with the light switch of the earth, like he’s tossing the plane as if it’s a die. There are terrified whispers, murmured prayers, muffled sobs. There are no screams; it’s too late for that. The fates of the passengers on the plummeting plane are sealed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wide eyes of a young teenager are illuminated by flickers of light, shafts of sunlight that reach for him but don’t quite grasp him. There’s a hand on his arm. He turns and sees his mother, her eyes red-rimmed and watering. She presses a kiss to his forehead and squeezes her eyes shut. The boy grasps tightly to her elbows. He doesn’t want to let her go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plane shakes and the boy is thrown back. He’s caught by a new set of hands and is being turned to face his father. “I love you,” his father says, holding him tightly by the shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy wants to speak. He wants to say it back, but fear is blocking his airways and he feels if he opens his mouth he’ll vomit. His stomach churns and his legs tremble and he fears his seatbelt will fail as his head spins. His mother holds him from one side and his father from the other as the windows grow dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re getting closer to the earth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re about to hit ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s mother whispers prayers in his ear. His father repeats the words like a mantra. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. Please. I love you. Please.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s cheeks grow wet. Screams arise from the cabin. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out his own yell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony wakes with a start, panting heavily. His head swirls as his dream blends with reality - but he knows it’s not a dream, not really. It’s reality, just not his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam startles upright across from him, hands scratching at his chest. Tony felt it, too, a piece of the wreckage impaling itself between his ribs. When Tony inhales, he can almost feel it shift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve looks around with wild eyes, hands moving about his sheets as if to prove that they’re real, that he’s actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>wherever </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was that they just saw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol’s eyes fly open with a soft inhale, and she lies flat, staring up at the ceiling. She’s more used to this than any of them, having gone through it four times, now. For Tony, this is just his first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” he demands, breathless, as Steve reaches into his pack and withdraws a notebook. Sam leans over his shoulder and begins giving instructions. After </span>
  <em>
    <span>short, curly hair </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>large, brown eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>young, 14 at most, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tony realizes Sam’s describing the boy, and Steve is sketching him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A mother and a father,” Carol calls as she lays unmoving. “An apparent only child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw trees,” Tony contributes. “Lots of them. Pine and snow. Northern Canada, if I’d have to guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol gives him a curt nod, a, </span>
  <em>
    <span>good job. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This may be the only time he’s experienced this first-hand, but he’s not completely blind to the situation. When he was found by Carol, metal shards being shoved out of his skin and coughing up metal dust that had been purified from his blood and lungs, he had a lot of questions. He knows now that what he’s just experienced is the birth of a new Immortal, one who should have died but miraculously lived, and one who will continue to until the end of time. If it’s a burden or a gift, Tony has yet to tell, but one thing’s for sure: they have to find this new Immortal and get to them before danger finds them, as it always seems to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol stands and brushes off her jeans, setting a flannel around her shoulders. “Northern Canada,” she says with a nod in Tony’s direction. She holds her hand out for Steve’s sketch. “I’ll go retrieve him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve rips the page from the book and begins to hand it over when Tony holds his hands out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on,” he says, and all eyes turn to him. “Carol, do you really think you’re the best person to be doing this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol shrugs. “I always do. I’ve got the most experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I don’t doubt that, but… well, this is a kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol raises a brow. “And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you haven’t always been the kindest toward newcomers.” Tony remembers her slapping him out of what they would now identify as a panic attack. Not the most effective method, and he hated her for the first month for it, but at least he was too shocked to remember why he was hyperventilating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, their life is about to get a lot harder. I’m not going to pretend that it’s light and breezy from here on-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony raises a brow. Sam snorts, and Steve smiles softly, shaking his head as he sketches out a second copy of their newest recruit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Good point,” Carol concedes quietly. “So, what, we send Steve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Steve mutters, not looking up from his page. “You think I could fight off a scared and panicking newfound Immortal in my condition?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol eyes Steve’s scrawny arms and tiny figure. He’s at least a head shorter than her, and she’s not even the tallest of the group. Stand Steve beside Sam and you’d be laughing. Even </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tony’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>taller than him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright. Sam?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nuh-uh. I’m not up for dealing with that chicken-without-a-head shit, especially not in a teenager, are you kidding?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol sighs, turning to Tony. “Are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>volunteering, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony remembers when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the new recruit, almost 300 years ago. He’s frozen in his 40-year-old body, but the time he’s spent on this earth is nothing compared to that of the company he surrounds himself with. Needless to say, he’s not the best choice for providing answers to a new Immortal… or maybe, he’s the perfect one, seeing as Tony remembers most clearly what it’s like to be in the kid’s situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he sighs. “Sure.” He accepts the drawing from Steve and takes a clearer look at the boy, swearing under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so young.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>young.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know how to track him?” Carol asks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you ready for this? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tony gives her a curt nod in response. He’s done enough missions with the group to know how to track a disaster. “Good luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve gives him a nod, and Sam’s left staring into the middle distance, thinking hard about something Tony’s not privy to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sends one final look around the Delta safehouse before packing his bag with enough food for a week and a couple of days’ worth of clothes and setting off into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter threw up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the first thing he did after shoving his parents’ bodies off of him, rushing through the aisle of corpses, and forcing his way out of the plane. He collapsed to the ground, snow seeping into his jeans, and heaved up anything and everything his body had stored, and then lay back on the snow as his stomach cramped and his legs convulsed and he begged himself to wake up. After minutes passed and nothing happened Peter forced himself to rise, looking down at his hands. The skin there was smooth, unbroken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thought struck him and he reached for his chest, frantic hands pushing his sweatshirt up to examine the wound he felt create itself, searching for the metal he watched carve its way into his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a hole through the sweatshirt, but nothing on his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… but that was impossible. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt </span>
  </em>
  <span>it impale him. He should’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>died.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter sits with his back to the plane, trying to ignore what’s on the other side of the metal as he reflects on the situation around him. He can’t believe it. Nothing feels real. There’s no way he survived that crash when everyone else had-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s shoulders cave inward and he tucks his knees to his chest as a pressure builds up in his throat. No, they can’t be. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be. How could he have survived when they didn’t? No, they’re still sitting in their seats. Peter’s fine; why can’t they be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shoves himself to his feet, reaching an arm out to steady himself against the plane when his legs threaten collapse. He slowly fights his way through the debris, avoiding the scattered pieces of metal that lay askew around him. Peter tries not to think about the implications of the plane laying in tatters; it’s not very difficult. It’s like his mind can’t focus, like it </span>
  <em>
    <span>refuses </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Right now Peter’s only thinking about one thing: finding his parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pays no mind to the way the metal creaks beneath his feet as he steps back onto the plane, the way his foot slides on a deep red liquid, the way unseeing eyes bore into him from all angles. He swallows thickly as he forces his way through them all, because it’s not real. It’s not real, it isn’t. Peter just has to- he just needs to find-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There. </span>
  </em>
  <span>7A and 7C. Peter sees them, their bodies slouched over the middle seat- </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>seat. His mother’s hair is covering her face and his father’s glasses are askew on his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter reaches them and slowly lowers himself to his knees. They do nothing to indicate that they see him; they don’t move at all. They don’t even blink. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the shock, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Peter thinks. His dad is in the aisle seat, so Peter goes to him first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad?” he says, his voice reverberating around the broken metal. He touches a hand to his dad’s shoulder. “Dad?” he tries again. This time, his voice breaks. Peter doesn’t know why. There’s metal protruding from his father’s back, red dripping over his shoulder. For a moment Peter just stares, uncomprehending. And then, he slowly backs away and slides over to his mother, his body protecting him from something his mind is not understanding enough to fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter settles down into the middle seat, getting as close to his mom as possible. He thinks of his father behind him and suppresses a shiver. “Mom?” he whispers, and there’s a tremble in his voice. “Mommy, please,” he says. His chin wobbles and his hands shake as he reaches for his mother’s hand. It’s heavy as he lifts it to his face, as he presses her hand to his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mommy,” he mouths, his vision growing blurry- no, he needs to see her. He reaches a hand for the side of her head, fingers splaying up into her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand comes away wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom,” he begs. “Mommy, please.” His cries echo around the wreckage, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be gone. She can’t- Peter needs her. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>her. He’s just a kid, he can’t lose her!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad!” Peter sobs, turning in his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father’s eyes stare back at him, glassy and unblinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t make it from the plane this time as he spits up bile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter runs, as far as his legs will take him. He leaves the creaking metal behind and its lifeless passengers, sobbing as his chest heaves and his legs tremble. His foot catches on a branch and he goes sprawling into the snow, the cold sudden and biting, piercing his hands and his exposed ankles beneath his jeans and brushing his nose and his ears. He lies in the snow, lacking the strength to rise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tears crystallize on his cheeks, freezing the moment they leave his eyes. He’s cold and trembling and pale and sick and so, so hungry and so, very alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>survive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weight of the world presses down on him, compressing him into the snow, and he lets it, lets himself be pressed down, lets the cold attack him on all sides until he’s nothing, laying frozen and still in a place he knows not where.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter will wake up, and it will all be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or he won’t, and there will be no difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves his hands in the fate of the universe and closes his eyes, iced eyelashes clicking together. The air around him is still, the forest silent, all sound absorbed. A small pile of snow tumbles off a tree and lands with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump </span>
  </em>
  <span>on a growing pile below. The claws of an animal scramble across a branch. There is no wind, and the sounds fade the moment they are made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter lets the silence comfort him. He lets the snow do what it will with him. He doesn’t fight it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Visions fade in and out. A woman and three men. One in a factory, a second on a battlefield, a third in a hospital bed, and a fourth atop a great wall. Hammering sheet metal, firing a gun, coughing in pain, holding a child. Doom befalls them all at once. Walls crumble. A bullet hits home. A heartbeat ceases. Bodies are shoved over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter watches them all. He can’t find the strength to react. He lays in the snow. He does not move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A foot nudges Peter’s side. He fights it and keeps his eyes closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, kid,” a voice murmurs. It sounds familiar, though Peter’s sure he’s never heard it before. “Up and at ‘em.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter blinks his eyes open. He feels the cold, but it never reaches further than the first couple layers of skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man stands above him, the man from Peter’s dream. This is Heaven, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then why does his chest still hurt so much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, there he is,” the man says, stepping aside. Peter props himself up on shaking elbows and watches as the man sets his pack down and begins to pull something out - an apple. He tosses it in Peter’s direction who catches it with ease, but does nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Peter opens his mouth to speak, his throat is dry. “How long have I….” He gestures to the ground around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been here?” the man supplies. Peter nods. “Two days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes widen in horror and he looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know much about frostbite, but he knows that what he sees is surreal, his hands turning pale and then regaining colour just as fast. He turns them over, one hand open and the other clenched around the apple. The process repeats - pale, then colour. Trembling, then still. Weak, then strong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man watches him with interest, leaning against a nearby tree. “Your heart is working overtime to combat the frostbite and send blood pumping to your hands,” he notes, and Peter meets his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hungry,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man lifts his chin. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re not hungry, because your body convinces you that you aren’t and heals the hunger pains before you can realize they’re there.” He nods toward the apple. “Eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Peter takes a bite, his mind working terribly hard to get his thoughts in order before he voices them. He looks up at the man as he chews, who in turn is looking up at the trees. “Who are you?” Peter asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smiles softly at him. “Tony,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you find me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re telling me you didn’t see me in your dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter freezes mid-bite. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The dream. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had completely forgotten about it, but now the man himself is standing in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you-” Peter stops, and Tony gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. Peter’s mind grows more crowded as he shoves himself to his feet, stabilizing himself against a nearby tree. “How did you know? How were you in my dream? How do you know I am? What’s- should I be scared?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of Tony’s lips quirk up slightly, and Peter’s unnerved by the calmness with which Tony is handling the situation. “Yes,” he says simply. The answer just confuses Peter more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind is working on overdrive. He can’t organize his more complex thoughts, and so he reverts to the most basic, the most prominent, before he can even realize what he’s saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My parents are dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words force themselves from his lips, and Peter’s left watching Tony as the man stills. Tears drip down Peter’s cheeks and his hands shake, but he doesn’t move his eyes from Tony’s. He doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t understand a thing that had happened leading to now, but he knows that Tony’s here, and if Tony were here to kill him he would be dead already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Tony says, his voice quiet as he keeps his distance. Peter sniffles, looking back in the direction he’d come. He sees nothing through the trees, and that seems </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t abandon them,” Tony says, as if he’s reading Peter’s thoughts. Peter doesn’t turn back around. “Out of all the people on that plane, you survived. Whether it’s lucky or not, I couldn’t tell you, but it happened. You’re alive for a reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Peter demands, his voice low as he turns abruptly back to Tony, who simply shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head frantically as he backs up, shoulder brushing against tree bark. “It’s not fair,” he says quietly. “Why- what- why am I here? Why did I survive? Why do I deserve to live when they-” He shakes his head and bites down on his lower lip enough to hurt. “It doesn’t make sense,” he whispers harshly, voice harrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony takes a slow step closer. “Look, kid, I get it-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t possibly!” Peter yells. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here or- or where I am, or who </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>are, and my parents are dead and I’m-” Peter stops suddenly, staring with horror at the snow a step in front of him. “An orphan,” he finishes quietly. “I’m an orphan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony has the good sense to give Peter space, waiting a couple steps back. “Do you want the truth?” he asks quietly. Peter meets Tony's eyes, a heartbroken expression on his face. "I'm an Immortal," Tony says finally. "One of four. Well, five, I guess, because you are, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter just stares at Tony, his expression unreadable. "I was wrong. I'm not in Heaven," he says. "This is Hell."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony nods as if this is the reaction he expected before leaning down and withdrawing a pocketknife from his bag. Peter surprises himself by not flinching. If he misjudged and Tony </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>here to kill him, all Peter can wish for is that he does it fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony unsheathes the knife and makes eye contact with Peter. Peter tenses, unsure, waiting for him to charge. And then, Tony flips the knife and shoves it into his abdomen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony lets out a shout of pain as Peter's eyes widen in horror and he hurries forward, arms outstretched to help, when Tony steps back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hold on," he says, panting. Before Peter's eyes, Tony pulls the knife from his stomach as a trail of blood makes its way down his shirt. Tony lifts the hem, showing Peter his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's not a mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter can't move his eyes from the skin. "You're insane," he gasps as Tony runs a hand over the skin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s smooth. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It must’ve been a fake knife or- or a ketchup packet, or-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter turns and steps back to where he knows the wreckage to be before he thinks on this matter any further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” Tony calls, exasperated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back to the plane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what are you going to do there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head angrily. “Wait for rescue,” he decides on. He hears footsteps behind him, Tony giving chase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what are you going to tell the rescue team when they find one kid, perfectly unscathed, among the pile of corpses?” Peter shivers at the word, but forces himself to keep moving. “Look, kid, you can’t go back there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because they’ll find out what you are, and you’ll be in danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter turns abruptly, his chin quivering with rage as he fixes Tony with a glare. “And what, exactly, am I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “An Immortal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter scoffs, turning away. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious, kid. Don’t go back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you going to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stab you.” Peter rolls his eyes. “I mean it. I’m going to stab you, and you’re going to heal as if it never happened in the first place, and then you’re going to believe what I say to be true and follow me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where would we go then?” Peter scoffs, humoring the psychopath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back to the safehouse with the other three Immortals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re going to have to get on with it and stab me, because I’m not going to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter feels the knife impale his back, feels it wedge its way through muscle and nudge against bone, and he screams, collapsing to his knees as his body seizes and he reaches a hand for the hilt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell what the hell whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s then that Peter realizes that he may die here, in the middle of the Canadian north, the bodies of his parents a five-minute walk away and a psychopath leaning over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter turns with a gasp of pain and sees Tony stepping closer, getting nearer. “No,” Peter pants, reaching desperately for the hilt of the knife. “No, please-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that word reminds Peter of his father’s last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is not how he wants to go out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter grits his teeth and twists, grunting against the pain. He pulls the knife from his back with a suppressed scream and throws it back in Tony’s direction, who catches it effortlessly as he approaches. Peter scrambles back on the snow. He refuses to go out like this. He needs to get back to his parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid-” Tony tries, but Peter kicks out, and his foot makes contact with Tony’s shin. Tony grunts in surprise and Peter takes that moment to shove himself to his feet and run, back to the wreckage, back to his parents. The plane is within sight when a slicing pain erupts from Peter’s calf and he falls with a scream, diving into the snow and knife landing beside his ankle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just give it up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We could keep doing this, but it’ll never end because we </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. Die.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Peter bites back grunts of pain as he drags himself forward in the snow. He has to get back, he has to-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Tony’s hand grabs Peter’s leg and he screams, he cries, he kicks out, he fights in any way he can, but Tony holds fast. “Kid. Come on. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Peter gasps, hands scrambling against the snow as Tony tugs him back. He hauls Peter up, into his chest, and wraps his arms around him tight. “No, let me go-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen to me,” Tony says, his voice low as he speaks directly in Peter’s ear. “I had a dream about you. You survived a plane crash that could’ve killed you, but you got out without a scratch. Why do you think that happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luck,” Peter huffs, fighting against Tony’s grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know that’s not true. What about how we dreamed about each other, huh? Explain that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me go,” Peter demands, fighting against Tony’s arms, but Tony has Peter’s hands pinned to his sides and he can’t go anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to the knife wounds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s struggles weaken as he realizes that there’s no pain in his back, nor on his leg. Slowly, Tony loosens his grip. “If I let you go, will you continue to run?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter hesitates for a moment too long before nodding his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony’s grip tightens once more. “Thought so.” He begins to drag Peter back, away from the plane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Away from his parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Peter screams, fighting harder. “No, I have to- I have to see them, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re dead, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Peter cries. “I can’t- I won’t leave them, I….” His struggles weaken until his fights are barely a shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re gone,” Tony says quietly. “They can’t do anything for you or you, for them. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony retracts his arms, and Peter slumps forward, into the snow. His cheeks are wet and the forgotten apple lies beside his palm. He hears Tony shuffle behind him, presumably gathering his things and retrieving the fallen knife, as Peter slowly adjusts himself to bring his feet around in front of him. His jeans are coated in snow, and Peter feels cold, though not as frozen as he should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a trail of red on his jeans, but when Peter tries to reach his fingers through and poke at his skin, he feels no wound. When he twists to feel his back, there’s no pain - a tear in his sweatshirt, sure, but no reminder of the knife beneath it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready to go?” Tony says from somewhere behind Peter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter looks up, finding the plane in the trees. The forest is silent once more, the air still. He thinks of his parents, lying still in the wreckage, of everyone else that he’s cheated out of the rest of their lives just so his, supposedly, can last forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter sends a silent goodbye, rubbing the tears from his cheeks as he stands and turns to face Tony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” he asks warily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony gives him a small smile. “A safe house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re fifteen minutes into their walk when Peter decides to break the silence. “You never asked me my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Do you want to give it to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter.” Tony nods in acknowledgement. “And- and let the record show that I’m just following you because I have no one else.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And because you might be leading me to my death.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noted,” Tony hums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods. Before silence can befall them again, Peter opens his mouth once more. “So… we’re immortal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup.” Tony pops the </span>
  <em>
    <span>P.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, if I shoot you, you’d survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I stab you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’d </span>
  </em>
  <span>survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter frowns, still not entirely sure that Tony’s telling the truth, but he doesn’t think he’d want to test it. (Technically, they already did. Peter’s still not convinced that this all isn’t a fever dream.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I, like, cut you up into a million pieces and then scattered them all around the world?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony huffs out a laugh. “Um, presumably, all the pieces would find themselves and put themselves together again, and I’d be back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how long would that take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends how long it takes shards of bone to cross the world.” Despite himself, Peter snorts, turning away and scanning the forest as they pass. “Does this mean you believe me now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to shoot me in the heart to prove it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony shrugs, reaching into his pack once more, before freezing, stopping entirely in his tracks. Peter turns to face him. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t entirely believe me,” Tony states. Peter shakes his head. “But you were willing to let me shoot you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s jaw clenches and he turns away, resuming their walk. Tony jogs to catch up to his side. “You’re not going to die, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, not anymore, apparently,” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, this world kept you alive for a reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Care to share?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony shakes his head in frustration, turning away. “I barely know any more than you do, kid. None of us have any answers. All we know is that we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and we use it to do good. In our hands, this immortality is a gift, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter huffs, nodding anyway. The tension has grown, and Peter wonders how long it’ll take them to reach their destination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what happened to you?” Peter tries as they trudge through the snow, the trees thinning around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Industrial Revolution,” Tony says simply. “Building collapse. I was impaled by metal, shards found their way into my blood, my lungs….” He shrugs. When he sees Peter’s wide eyes, he shrugs. “And I’m the youngest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old are the others?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old,” Tony says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony laughs, and it helps ease some of the tension from Peter’s shoulders. “Our oldest is Carol. At the time, she was Karola. With a K.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter frowns. “What kind of name is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An Ancient Greek one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes widen. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup,” Tony says as the treeline finally opens up, and they see a road, deserted except for a black Jeep parked on the shoulder. “Hop in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this how you get kids? Instead of candy and a white van, it’s a Jeep, and you trick them with immortality and a cool, primary source on Ancient Greece?” Peter climbs into the passenger seat anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends. Is it working?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter chuckles, turning his head out the window as Tony pulls the Jeep onto the road. “We’re a couple of hours from the airport, and then it’s not long until we get to the safehouse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s stomach churns. “Airport?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, not really,” Tony says as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, oblivious. “It’s really just a plane for our private use - technically, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘illegal’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but then again, technically we aren’t even real, so-” Tony turns to give Peter a smile, but freezes when he sees how pale the boy had gotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checks to see that the Jeep is on the right path before settling a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Whoa, hey,” he soothes. “It’s alright. Sam, our pilot, he’s been flying planes since they were invented. He controlled them before they were capable of controlling themselves, right? You’re safe, I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter swallows thickly as he nods. “I’m fine,” he tries to say, but his voice is hoarse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. Sure.” Tony reaches for the pack at his feet and tosses it to Peter. “There’s water in there. Drink up. Also, some bread and granola, I think. Grab whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, beginning to rummage through the pack. “... Oh. Uh, does that apply to weapons?” He extracts a handgun by the handle, pinched between two fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you know how to hold it properly.” Without taking his eyes from the road Tony slides the gun from between Peter’s fingers, flips it around, and holds it to Peter’s head. Peter doesn’t even flinch, and Tony smiles as he drops it back into the pack. He doesn’t know if Peter had adjusted shockingly fast to the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>immortal </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing, or if he doesn’t care what happens to him either way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony’s got to keep an eye on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re, what, 300 years old?” Peter says, and Tony hums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of. 250, maybe? I’m getting up there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t look a day over 200,” Peter jokes, and Tony cracks a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After a while, there’s no need to keep count anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, growing solemn. “Is there any way to stop it?” he asks, feigning nonchalance as he looks out the window. Tony lets out a slow exhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, taking that as answer enough. “At least I’m not leaving anyone behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony swallows thickly before speaking. “You know, I’ve, uh, got some descendents out there,” he says. Peter watches his profile; his jaw is tight and his Adam’s apple bobs with every nervous swallow. “My great-great-granddaughter, she’s a strong one. She’s still kicking down in France.” He nods, blinking quickly. “After her, I’ve got... three more generations of Starks running around. I like to keep tabs on them. The number just keeps growing and growing….” Tony smiles fondly, but soon it’s wiped from his features. “It’s about time I stop soon. It’s getting difficult to keep track.” And Peter knows he’s talking not just about the additions to the family, but the deaths, as well. Peter wonders how many of them are still Starks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he manages to say. Tony turns and gives him a grateful smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mom’s was the hardest. It was the first time I realized-” Tony takes a deep breath- “that this was real, you know? That I really wasn’t going anywhere. My dad came next, and then my cousins… they just kept coming,” Tony whispers. “One after the other, impossibly fast… I could’ve sworn humans had a longer lifespan than this. Turns out, us immortals bring the average up,” he jokes. Peter thinks for a moment, considering what to say, when Tony reaches for the radio and turns it on before he has the chance to speak. Old rock fills the car, and Peter bobs his head, pretending he’s calm, he’s relaxed, that his head isn’t reeling with the news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Songs play one after the other and Peter keeps his attention focused out the window. He doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into, and he doesn’t think he wants to know. For now, he’s just… going to take it one step at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then… then airport.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>safehouse </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tony keeps mentioning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, immortality, and his life will be full of </span>
  <em>
    <span>and then and then and then</span>
  </em>
  <span>s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head. Those are some pretty big steps, so Peter tries to focus on some smaller ones. He pulls Tony’s bag onto his lap and fishes around in it. He feels Tony’s eyes on him, but he figures that if Tony handed him his bag before, he can’t possibly mind now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter finds a small pocket knife, the one he had thrown at Tony earlier. He quirks a smile at the memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter returns the bag and its contents to the floor, keeping the knife sealed in his palm. He twists the casing beneath his fingers, pressing down on the hard leather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re telling me,” Peter says, examining the knife from all angles, “that if I cut myself with this, it would heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost instantly, depending on how big the wound is. You’d still feel the pain, though, so watch out for that.” Peter feels phantom pains crawl their way up his back and his leg, where he should be bleeding out from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noted,” he says, before flicking the knife open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blade reflects in the light as he angles it back and forth. Instead of feeling the anticipation he should be, all Peter feels is… </span>
  <em>
    <span>interest. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The knife is beautiful, the blade smooth and perfectly reflective, the handle holding intricately-carved designs all around the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t let me bleed out in your truck, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All over these beautiful leather chairs?” Tony pats the headrest of Peter’s chair for emphasis. “‘Course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, examining the knife. He presses the edge to his skin. “Yeah?” he asks, without taking his eyes from the indent in his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter takes a deep breath in. On the exhale, he exerts pressure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knife gives and Peter feels his stomach drop at the uncomfortable feeling of something other than tissue beneath his skin. The air hits the wound and it stings, and Peter gasps as he pulls the knife back. Red glistens on the blade. Peter focuses on cleaning the knife on his pants, sliding it one way and then the other, as he feels the blood drip down his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if it doesn’t heal? </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mind helpfully supplies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What if it was all a bunch of lies? Immortality - are you an idiot? Tony told you a lie to get you in his car, and you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter scowls, trying to force his thoughts back, when he feels Tony tap his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You been paying attention, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shocked, Peter looks down - and there’s nothing there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The skin is clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Huh,” is all Peter can think to say as he brings the knife down again. Another cut, another sting, and the skin miraculously sealing itself once more. “Wild.” Tony chuckles from his spot behind the wheel. And then, before Peter can stop himself, he jams the knife into his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His scream shocks Tony and sends the car swerving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What-” Tony exclaims, and then he catches sight of Peter’s arm and sighs. “Couldn’t get enough, could you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter cups his right hand beneath his left forearm, catching any drops of blood that fall. The bloodied knife lays on his thigh, and he’s simultaneously focused on keeping any blood from the car seats and trying to figure out how his newfound power works. When the wound heals just moments later, Peter’s none the wiser, and there’s a drop of blood on the seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony hands him a tissue, and Peter begins to clean himself up. “You good?” Tony asks, voice on the verge of irritation. Peter exhales a slow breath of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is… weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. You gonna stab yourself again any time soon?” Peter wordlessly shakes his head, turning his arm over and examining it from all angles. Tony just shakes his head as he turns the music up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony drives them to an empty field with a rickety plane sitting in the middle. Tony reaches one hand for the bag at Peter’s feet and the other for the car door, but freezes when he realizes that Peter has yet to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter twists the knife over in his fingers as his eyes find the plane. “Is that it?” he asks, his mouth going dry and a tremble in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. This baby’s 80 years old. We flew her through the wars.” Tony’s statement has the opposite than intended reaction - Peter’s breathing picks up and his shoulders grow tense beside his ears. “Whoa, hey. I meant to say that it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.” Peter still seems incapable of movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony huffs as he steps out and rounds the vehicle, pulling open Peter’s door. “Come on,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the plane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if it-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if we-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods as he inches himself from the seat. Realistically, he knows this is true - he can’t die. Still, he’s not eager to get in this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>that looks like it’ll collapse if the wind blows too harshly. Tony takes his elbow and tugs him forward anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, this whole experience is surreal, anyway. What’s one more life-endangering event?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That mentality slowly grows feeble as Peter nears the plane. His nails dig into the leather handle of the knife when he hears the engine sputter - literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>sputter </span>
  </em>
  <span>- to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, you’re fine,” Tony says in a low voice, helping Peter up through the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interior of the plane is not at all what Peter expected. It’s… </span>
  <em>
    <span>clean, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and looks recently furnished. Sure, there are no proper seats, just a bench along the outer edge; and yeah, okay, maybe guns line every wall, but they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>clean </span>
  </em>
  <span>guns. There’s brown leather everywhere, and the sides of the plane look like they’re coated in padding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grab a seat,” Tony says as he pulls the door closed behind them and grabs onto a bar that rests across the ceiling. Peter tentatively sits on one of the benches, looking for a seatbelt. He’s not surprised to find none.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s young,” Peter hears an awed voice say, and looks up to see a man turned around in the pilot’s chair. Tony waves a hand out in his direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam, meet Peter. Pete, this is Sam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter lifts a feeble hand as Sam gives him a nod. “Are you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Immortal?” Sam finishes. “Yeah. I just became </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sam </span>
  </em>
  <span>this last century. Before that, it was Samuel, everywhere I went.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter gives a slow nod, still not entirely sure that this isn’t all one big prank - and then Sam brings the plane forward, and Peter can’t give any more thought to that idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Tony calls, and it’s only then that Peter realizes that his hands are clenching the seat a little too tightly, and his eyes are a little too wide. Terror is clearly evident in his features. Tony nods to the knife clutched tight in Peter’s left hand. “You figure out how you heal yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter forces his fingers to unfurl. They’re pale and trembling, but Peter manages to take a deep breath and lets the light glinting off the metal soothe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plane rises from the ground, and Peter’s stomach flips. He lets out an involuntary whimper, and Tony shoulders his pack, taking careful steps across the plane to settle at Peter’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he says, “if you figure out the science behind this, it’ll do us some good. We haven’t been able to figure it out yet; we’ve all but given up. But with you, fresh blood- </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally…</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Tony looks pointedly to the knife, and Peter takes a deep breath, in and out, focusing on how it fills and empties his lungs. He brings the blade down to his arm, and makes a slice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plane trembles slightly, and Peter’s head spins. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Focus, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he demands of himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The cut is already healing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter brings his arm up closer to his eyes as the skin pulls together, fixing itself like stitches without the incisions. “Huh,” he says quietly. “Maybe if I had a microscope or something….” He brings the knife down once more and makes a second cut, this time a bit deeper. It gives him more time to investigate, but still, he comes away with nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony peers over his shoulder, watching him work. “You like science, Pete?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loved it since I was a kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, congratulations. You just became your own eternal text subject.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter grins. The plane rocks and substances rattle. Peter doesn’t even notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[ ✈ ]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home sweet home,” Tony says as Peter steps down from the plane, Sam following just behind. They’ve landed in the middle of what appears to be a wheat field, overgrown crops everywhere he looks. Sam steps past him carrying a bag of his own, and trudges toward a beaten-down barn that stands in the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Safehouse Delta,” Tony introduces, placing an arm around Peter’s shoulders and guiding him forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Sam,” Peter mutters as he pockets the knife. “Oh, can I, uh-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, keep it,” Tony says. “It’s yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter smiles. “How old is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of the wars. I dunno. 1200s, I think?” Tony shrugs, chuckling. “I never remember. You’d have to ask him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, picking his way through the overgrown grass. “So, um, how many people are in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Sam, of course. Then there’s Steve, and Carol.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Karola with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>K,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Peter says with a grin, and Tony smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got that right.” Tony hovers just out of sight of the barn door, Peter at his side. “You ready to go in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter sighs. “Where else am I gonna go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony nods, giving Peter one final once-over before turning and leading the way into the barn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got him,” Tony calls as Peter lets his eyes adjust, blinking quickly to try to see through the darkness. There’s Sam, closest to them, setting his bag down in the corner. Just beyond him there’s a boy settled against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him and a small smile on his face, and standing in the farthest corner of the room, taking slow steps forward, is a woman, her eyes cool and calculating as she takes the newcomer in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shuffles uncomfortably. Tony steps aside, and Peter watches him move with wide eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t leave me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tries to beg, but Tony moves anyway, somewhere out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol comes to a stop in front of him, and Peter fights to stand tall, even as she looks down on him. Her eyes narrow as she meets his gaze, just for a moment. And then, she nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to the team.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carol steps back, and Peter exhales a slow breath, searching the rest of the barn. For the first time, he sees it clearly. Shafts of light descend from the ceiling, illuminating the broken down walls, the ground that’s covered in straw. Steve meets Peter’s eyes and offers him a small wave, and after one final look to ensure Carol is done with him, Peter heads over to settle beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How you feeling, kid?” Steve says, and Peter chuckles under his breath. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, calling me </span>
  <em>
    <span>kid. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s kind of funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I’m almost 600, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter raises a brow. “... Huh, okay. It’s just that, well, you don’t look much older than me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look twelve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fourteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m immortalized as a 25-year-old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter chokes on his spit. “I- </span>
  <em>
    <span>25?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Steve shrugs in acknowledgement. “But you look so small.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. “Been struggling with disease my whole life. It was the tuberculosis that eventually killed me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods slowly, dropping his head back against the wall. “This is insane,” he whispers as his eyes flit about the wooden roof. Steve just nods, dropping his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get used to it after a couple of decades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… what, am I stuck with you guys, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t go back home,” Steve says, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have no home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“So unless you want to go off alone, yeah. We don’t- we don’t think of it as being </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though. It’s like our own little family. We watch each other’s backs, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods. “Sounds nice,” he lies as he searches around the barn. He looks for Tony, but catches Sam’s eye from across the room. “Guess I should introduce myself or something, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he already knows you. Saw you in our dreams, y’know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter chuckles half-heartedly. “Yeah, I saw you guys, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only good stuff, I hope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, you coughing up your lungs in a hospital bed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve offers a faint smile as he nods his head over to where Sam sits in the corner, his hands in motion behind his backpack, and Peter pushes himself up to his feet before crossing the room. Sam glances up as he approaches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on, pipsqueak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter raises a brow. “You have Steve right over there, and you call </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>pipsqueak?” Sam lifts his hands from behind his back, revealing the sword he had been cleaning on the fabric. Peter swallows thickly. “Pipsqueak sounds great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam cracks a smile. “Have a seat.” Peter settles a couple of paces away, and for a moment, neither says anything. Once Sam finishes cleaning his sword, he holds it up to the light. “You scared?” he asks quietly as he inspects it, but Peter knows he’s not speaking about the weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter thinks of his life ahead (if it can even be called that), of existing forever, of watching everyone you hold dear die, of having unlimited time to complete a task. Learning to fight, training to survive, struggling to exist while staying out of the ever-growing media’s attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of procrastinating until the end of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Peter whispers after a moment. Sam peers at him from the corner of his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got us,” he says. “We’ll protect you.” And those words are the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Peter tries to swallow his tears, but it doesn’t work this time, and they spill over, the thought of what he’s truly gotten himself into just now revealing itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head, dropping his chin and lifting his hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but nothing comes out but more tears. Sam curses as he slides closer, placing a hand on Peter’s back, near his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too young,” Peter hears Sam say faintly as he feels the man’s concerned eyes on him. “I’m so sorry, kid,” he says, louder. This, Peter is meant to hear. “You didn’t ask for this. None of us did, but… but it’s what we’ve got. We’ve learned to do something with it. You will, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter scrubs his tears away. There’s more left to cry, but that will come later, after he’s alone. For now he lifts his head and smiles weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he says, and Sam just gives him a sympathetic look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Peter hears, and looks up to find Tony standing in the doorway of the barn. Tony nods his head in the direction of the sunlight and steps outside, and Peter’s left to follow, feeling Carol, Steve, and Sam’s eyes on him the whole way as he travels on shaking legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds Tony a couple of paces outside the barn, facing the open field. Peter creeps forward to his side. Tony barely spares him a glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You meet the team?” Tony asks, and Peter nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They seem nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, they’re a good group.” Tony sets off ahead, and Peter is left to trail after him as they cross the field. “You got anyone back home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter answers quickly, before the pain in his chest can identify itself. “No,” he says, the word itself getting caught in his throat. Tony spares him a careful glance before placing an arm over Peter’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve got us now.” Peter nods, keeping his eyes down. “I mean it. We’ll keep you safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam said the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’ve gotta believe it, right?” Tony gives a slanted smile. “Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe it, everything you’ve heard. Everything….” </span>
  <em>
    <span>you are.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s lips pinch together as he considers, as Tony continues to pace forward, as his hand grows tense on Peter’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Otherwise I’d be dead,” Peter settles for - it’s not acceptance, nor is it denial. It’s fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, fair point.” Tony stops walking, and his arm across Peter’s shoulders causes Peter to still. Tony drops his head, looking Peter in the eyes. “Really, kid… you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter looks between Tony’s eyes and finds he can’t lie. “No,” he says finally. Tony simply nods, tightening his hold around Peter’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be here until you are,” he assures Peter, and Peter lets himself lean further against Tony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, he believes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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